Waste not, want not,

Some maxim I would teach;

Let your watchword be never despair

And practise what you preach.

Do not let your chances like the sunbeams pass you by,

For you’ll never miss the water till the well runs dry.

But this dolorous singing was not allowed to continue long. “Now, then, all together, boys,” some one would shout, and the company would revert to old favourites. Of these, one was “The Barleymow.” Trolled out in chorus, the first verse went:

Oh, when we drink out of our noggins, my boys.

We’ll drink to the barleymow.

We’ll drink to the barleymow, my boys,

We’ll drink to the barleymow.

So knock your pint on the settle’s back;

Fill again, in again, Hannah Brown,

We’ll drink to the barleymow, my boys,

We’ll drink now the barley’s mown.

So they went on, increasing the measure in each stanza, from noggins to half-pints, pints, quarts, gallons, barrels, hogsheads, brooks, ponds, rivers, seas, and oceans. That song could be made to last a whole evening, or it could be dropped as soon as they got tired of it.

Another favourite for singing in chorus was “King Arthur,” which was also a favourite for outdoor singing and was often heard to the accompaniment of the jingling of harness and cracking of whips as the teams went afield. It was also sung by solitary wayfarers to keep up their spirits on dark nights. It ran:

When King Arthur first did reign,

He ru-led like a king;

He bought three sacks of barley meal

To make a plum pud-ding.

The pudding it was made

And duly stuffed with plums,

And lumps of suet put in it

As big as my two thumbs.

The king and queen sat down to it

And all the lords beside:

And what they couldn’t eat that night

The queen next morning fried.

Every time Laura heard this sung she saw the queen, a gold crown on her head, her train over her arm, and her sleeves rolled up, holding the frying-pan over the fire. Of course, a queen would have fried pudding for breakfast: ordinary common people seldom had any left over to fry.

Then Lukey, the only bachelor of mature age in the hamlet, would oblige with:

Me feyther’s a hedger and ditcher,

An’ me mother does nothing but spin,

But I’m a pretty young girl and

The money comes slowly in.

Oh, dear! what can the matter be?

Oh, dear! what shall I do?

For there’s nobody coming to marry,

And there’s nobody coming to woo.

They say I shall die an old maid,

Oh, dear! how shocking the thought!

For them all my beauty will fade,

And I’m sure it won’t be my own fault.

Oh, dear! what can the matter be?

Oh, dear! what shall I do?

There’s nobody coming to marry,

And there’s nobody coming to woo!